Wrinkle
Meeting you
in
The hallway
of pretensions,
I notice how
you look
So out of
place.
You break
your steps
For a drink
of water
From the
mud-pot in the corner.
The crow
watches.
You step
over the shadow of
The minaret
That creeps
in from across
The road
onto the floor.
It tingles
as it gets
The breeze,
rustled down from the folds
Of your sari.
Tell me,
what did you think of all my lies
When I had
told them to you?
What do you
think of them
Now?
Did you ever
see anything
At all
In my gray
and shameful ramblings,
In the
repainted tin toys that
I had kept
on your doorstep
And
window-sill?
As we lay,
face down,
On the cold
ugly mosaic floor
With
mismatched tiles,
Did your
heart ever keep a feather
Over one of
mine?
All our
kisses we never tasted,
The hands we
never held,
The wrinkles
we never etched
In the grey,
badly-embroidered sheets.
The goodbyes
said early.
The hellos
whispered with hope
And hung to
dry in the monsoon sun,
The touches
born of a hunger that
Never left
its safe dark space…
All speak to
me in
Braille
today.
I close my
eyes, my tongue, my ears,
My skin, my
nail-tip,
Saving for
another rainy day that
Will never
arrive.
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